Personal Trainer
by CommodoreOblivious
Summary: Sebastian Moran, ex-military sniper and bodyguard to the Napoleon of crime, is sometimes Jim's personal trainer. If there is one thing Jim hates, it's running. Moran doesn't cut him any slack. Crack treated seriously. One-shot.


"Five more minutes."

Jim Moriarty wipes the sweat out of his eyes and growls. "You're trying to kill me," he says, breathing hard.

The ex-military sniper, now bodyguard and sometimes-personal trainer doesn't reply, but he knows his amusement is evident to Moriarty anyway, even with his dark eyes focused on the stopwatch held in front of him. "Four more minutes," he replies. "Step it up. Come in strong."

"Fuck!" The treadmill gives a few alarmed bleeps as the criminal consultant bumps up the speed and picks up his pace. For a few minutes, there's no noise except for the machine, the tread of Moriarty's expensive running shoes, and the mess of grumbled, gasping threats coming out of his mouth.

"Breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth. You're going to pass out from lack of oxygen."

"At least then I won't be running! How much longer? Tell me it's over. It has to be."

Sebastian Moran glances at the stopwatch. Perfect zeros. "Ninety seconds."

Moriarty's eyes narrow, but he doesn't stop. "You're lying."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Sixty seconds."

"I hate you. You are so fired."

Moran gives Moriarty a few more flagging seconds and then hits the stop button on the treadmill himself. The Irishman hops off the machine as if he's afraid Moran will start it up again if he doesn't. He's half-coughing and half-gasping for air, but Moran refuses to feel bad for his boss. Instead, he manhandles him out of his bent over crouch and stands him straight, with his arms over his head. "You were obstructing your airway. Better?"

The glare Moriarty tries to give him from this position is ridiculous and his boss knows it. He gives it up and just nods, still breathing heavily.

Moran wipes down the machine as the criminal mastermind gets his breathing back to a normal rhythm, and then tosses a nearby water bottle to him. Moriarty catches it, a little off guard, and the sniper wonders if they should be working on hand-eye coordination. He makes a mental note to put it on the agenda for tomorrow's work out. For now, he gently removes the water from the genius currently attempting to guzzle it down.

"Small sips, boss. You'll give yourself a stomachache."

Moriarty's lips turn down in a scowl, but he lets go of the plastic bottle. "I'm not your boss. I fired you, remember?"

"You've fired me every day this past week. It doesn't seem to stick."

"Well, this time I mean it. I'm on to you, Sebastian. You think you can just run me to death on this horror machine and take over my empire. You can just forget it, because I've seen through your tricks. You—where are you going? Sebastian, I'm talking to you!"

Moran's smirk is nearly invisible, but he's still glad his back is turned as he makes his way out of the gym. "You fired me, remember?"

"Sebastian!" Moriarty calls. There is a thump that Moran knows means the small man has just stomped his foot down like a child about to throw a tantrum and he rolls his eyes.

"Yes?" he asks, feigning innocence as he comes back into the room, holding out a fluffy, white towel to the other man like an offering of peace.

Moriarty takes it. His words are muffled as he buries his face in it, wiping off the sweat from his skin and hair. "I'm un-firing you. You can start now."

"What, no interview?"

Damp, messy hair and wicked, dark eyes gleam at the sniper just above the towel. It manages to be both sinister and adorable at the same time. Moran secretly blames Moriarty's big, round puppy-eyes for most of the crimes that he's committed in the last years of his employment. "You come highly recommended."

"How's the pay?"

Finished with the towel, the shorter man tosses it at the other. It falls just short of his mark, right at Moran's feet. Not even five minutes off of the treadmill, his phone is in his hand and his attention has already wandered to the glowing screen, "I've heard it's to kill for."

Moran picks the towel up off the floor and rolls it into a messy ball. He lines up the angle and shoots it, basketball-style, into the hamper across the room.

"Show off," Moriarty mumbles, not even glancing away from his mobile. He taps at the screen, all manic thumbs and mischief. "Be ready to leave in thirty. I need to shower and then we have plans for the rest of the night."

"Pistol or rifle?"

"There's a reason I hired you. Re-hired you. You know just what Daddy wants to hear."

They both begin to make their way out of the gym, Moran carrying Moriarty's duffel bag over one shoulder, while the Irishman considers the question. He grins back at the sniper, a full on Cheshire grin, "Why not both?"


End file.
